


Observe and admire

by oddishly



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: If Nate doesn't think about it, he can almost pretend he’s back in southern California, where the men talk about surfing and hiking and girls, and only say temporary goodbyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morning_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_coffee/gifts).



> To my beta who has been consistently fantastic over the last couple of months by reading this and telling me what worked and what didn't: THANK YOU. To my other beta who is entirely unfamiliar with GK but who has also read this many times and been super supportive and wonderful about it: ALSO THANK YOU.
> 
> I have been trying to write this fic for nearly a year! Dear morning_coffee, thank you for forcing me to finish it with your excellent list of likes and wants. I hope you enjoy <3

The day they leave Baghdad and drive on north, Nate walks around a corner and finds Lovell and another Marine shaking hands and embracing. The late afternoon sun has beat them into the shadows cast by the supply truck, a narrow strip of relief in the blazing desert, but even so, the men are really very close. 

This side of Baghdad is already worse than the south, just hours after leaving the city. Louder, more fighting, less time to think. Nate’s been staving off delirium from lack of sleep for days, and for a moment he can’t work out what he’s walked into. “Ah. I--”

The men pull apart and say, “Sir,” in unison, with respect.

Gunfire sounds to the west. Nate realizes too late that the men are exchanging goodbyes, uncertain if they will live to see each other again. Horror rises in his throat.

Lovell nods, and the two men separate, and file past Nate, murmuring, “LT,” one after the other.

Nate wants to sink down the side of the truck, put his head in his hands and forget. Instead, he forces himself to stand upright, turning his face and staring up until all he can think about is the heat of the sun prickling against his skin.

Eventually, he retreats back the way he came.

 

#

 

He’s in sight of his vehicle when he hears Brad’s voice come from somewhere around his knees.

“Lieutenant?” Brad is half-hidden against a Humvee, sat beside a stack of crates that should be secured inside it. His long legs stretch out in front of him with a half-folded map and the remains of an MRE balanced along his thigh.

They stare at each other for a moment before Brad indicates the spot in the sand beside him with a jerk of his head. “Pull up a pew, sir.”

Nate does as ordered. The sand is warm under his hands, even in the shade, and he rests his head against a coil of rope trailing down the topmost crate. In the ensuing quiet, he allows himself to imagine what a couple of days’ sleep and a shower would feel like, and steadfastly ignores his treacherous beating heart. If he doesn’t think about his feet rotting in his boots and the sand and sweat crusting his skin, he can almost pretend he’s back in southern California, where men talk about surfing and hiking and girls, and only say temporary goodbyes.

“You know,” says Brad, forcing Nate out of his fantasy with that wry, implacable voice, “we could have still been dismantling bombs and playing football right now, if you hadn’t declared your preference for me staying alive over 'maintaining property values in Greater Baghdad'.” 

He says the last bit in an inexplicable British accent that Nate thinks means he’s been listening to too many BBC reports of the invasion. His response is lost as six U.S. aircraft hurtle through the air above them.

“Maybe so,” he repeats when the planes have passed. “Although I suspect Godfather would have had something to say about it.”

“Probably.”

“Teaching Recon Marines to dismantle unexploded bombs in the suburbs likely doesn’t count as being very much in the game.”

“Likely not, sir,” says Brad. Nate can hear the quirk on his mouth without looking over.

Brad shifts until they’re sitting hip to hip, map conveniently huge and shading the two of them from the sun and prying eyes. The sweat and dirt on Brad's body doesn’t smell any worse than it does on Nate’s own, and after a moment of stillness, Nate relaxes, knees drawn up so he can’t fall forwards, or sideways. 

The Humvee is vibrating with distant gunfire. He lets himself drift again. 

When he jerks awake, his head is on Brad’s shoulder, bare moments later, based on the quality of the light and how he doesn’t feel in the least bit rested.

Nate hasn’t fallen asleep unintentionally in months. “Brad,” he mumbles. “Christ. Sorry.”

He can feel Brad shrug. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nate struggles upright. “Sorry,” he says again, blinking into the sun through Brad’s map, shaking his head and trying not to notice the stubble on Brad’s jaw, the dark under his eyes. “I just walked into two of the men saying goodbye. My men.”

Brad is silent, mood as impossible to discern as always, other than when he’s shouting about all the mistakes they’ve been forced under order to enact, or making faces at babies. 

It hits Nate, then, that what he’d stumbled onto earlier might one day be him and Brad, taking one final moment together. He hasn’t slept enough for this thought.

“Sir?”

Nate shakes his head. He doesn’t want to add this conversation to his already over-long list of regrets. He tries to muster up an appropriate apology, finding it immensely difficult to find anything he can say with sincerity.

“I’m glad it was you who found them, sir,” says Brad, saving him from having to find the words. “If anyone had to.”

They sit together in their shady quiet until Ray runs past the vehicle and away with Lilley and Trombley, yelling, “Time to go, Brad!” over his shoulder.

Brad folds his map and gets to his feet, offering a hand to Nate. His palm is dry, grip reassuring. Nate is still tired, and he isn’t sure if he lets go soon enough.

 

#

 

Since leaving Baghdad there has been little in the way of quiet. A day later, Nate is shaken awake an hour after he finally drops from consciousness, exhaustion and the bright morning sunlight making his eyes gritty.

Gunny Wynn is standing over him, expression upside-down and apologetic. “Sorry to wake you,” he says. “Captain Schwetje has some concerns. I tried to make him-- to reassure him, but--”

“‘m’up,” Nate interrupts. He runs his tongue around the sour taste of his mouth and forces himself to his feet. “Where?”

He heads in the direction he’s pointed, giving himself the walk to resent Schwetje’s incompetence. He pauses in the shadows when he spots Walt Hasser at the edge of the camp, who seems to be holding himself up with determination alone. Nate squints into the sun and realizes Walt is talking to someone. Behind the nearest tent, four shadowy figures are doing yoga on a wide patch of sand; Nate looks closer and to his surprise spots Brad, Trombley and Espera following Rudy Reyes’ example, trying to balance on one leg while doing some sort of stretch.

“How much longer do we have to keep doing this, Sergeant,” Trombley whines on the fourth repetition of something requiring a degree of pliability that he lacks. “Just because Rudy’s fucking gay, doesn’t mean the rest of us can do it. I’m not built for _pliés_.”

“Shut up, Trombley, that’s ballet.” Brad reaches to cuff Trombley over the head between movements--without, Nate observes, breaking position himself. “You got me into this total fucking homosexual endeavor. Next time, keep me out of your wagers. Walt, I don’t know what you’re smirking at, you’re up next.”

Trombley and Espera holler. Brad shakes his head and follows Rudy into a new position.

A bright, brilliant feeling flares and cools in Nate’s chest. He moves on.

The air is dry as he approaches the captain’s tent, daring to hope that he’s been denied those few rare hours of sleep for a reason. Then Schwetje sticks his head out of the tent, beaming, and Nate’s fragile good mood vanishes into the dust. 

“Sir. How can I help?” 

Schwetje wipes his face with the back of his hand and it leaves a smudge of earth on his forehead that gives him a disarmingly boyish look. Nate stifles a wave of loathing. “Come on in here, need to pick your brains.”

Nate ducks inside, ignoring Griego’s sly look as he passes, and spends several long minutes trying to exercise patience in the face of Schwetje’s asinine chatter concerning weapons and strategy. Nate only escapes the tent when the abrupt increase in noise from outside indicates the rest of the company’s readiness to leave.

 

#

 

The shooting intensifies, longer and even more grueling than the day before. Nate gets Bravo through the morning without losing anyone, eats the sloppy remains of the last two weeks’ MREs between firefights with his ears still ringing, and longs for Stafford and Christeson’s bastardized rap floating in from the back of the vehicle instead of their mutual, unnerving silence. He picks off enemy fighters and feels every shot lodge deep in his stomach.

In the full heat of the afternoon, the vehicles pull up outside a hamlet whose one viable road in and out has already been destroyed and blockaded by enemy forces. Nate goes to confer and not so subtly commiserate with Bravo Two. Alternative routes, astutely described by Ray as _literal fucking death traps one and two_ , include yet another bridge in bad shape, and a town four miles back and to the west that, aside from having a working road run through it at one point in its history, no one seems to know anything about.

“It’s unfortunate we don’t have an elite recon unit at our disposal to find out more about our options,” muses Ray from his place in the Humvee, staring through the dusty windshield at the overturned truck three hundred feet ahead. “Seems like millions of dollars of training could have been well-utilized on such a mission. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if we had such a unit and had employed their talents appropriately, we could have avoided this particular hold-up altogether, and enjoyed a long afternoon engaging with the enemy instead of--I don’t know--demonstrating once again that the United States Marine Corps is good for sticking its collective finger up its ass and apparently fuck all else. Wouldn’t you agree, Brad?”

Brad doesn’t say anything, eyes front, mouth vanishingly thin, nothing to indicate disappointment or rage but for his fingers splayed flat against his legs, holding himself in check. His eyes glance to Nate’s, then hold. Nate remembers waking up against him yesterday, the press of Brad’s body by his own.

Ray looks over Brad to address Nate. “LT, perhaps we could run and ask the Iraqis what they’re expecting us to do, so we can go ahead and do that before trying the other thing. It worked so well for us in Al Muwaffaqiyah, why not--”

Brad doesn’t look away from Nate when he says, “Ray--”

“Brad,” Ray says back, in the same voice. But he stops talking, thumping his head against the back of the seat.

 

#

 

Godfather decides they will return to the town nearby, for no good reason that Nate can discern. It’s too close to dark for the battalion to pass through today, if it takes even half as long to drive back as it did to get where they are now, and Nate doesn’t like the look of the bridge either but at least they can already see what they’d be dealing with.

“Lieutenant Fick, a moment,” Godfather says at the end of the meeting, and Nate’s heart sinks, awaiting a dressing down and not grateful he’s going to be alone for it.

Godfather doesn’t saying anything until the rest of the officers have left, Sixta with a gleam in his eye. “Nate. How are you?”

“Sir?”

“How are you?”

Thrown by what is clearly a question aimed at his personal well-being rather than his men or appealing to his tactical understanding, Nate says, “Fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“You still think we should be focusing on the bridge.”

“I have full faith in our ability to take the village with success and expedience,” says Nate automatically, then at Godfather’s silence, says, “Yes, sir. I do.”

Godfather doesn’t say anything. Nate wonders again why he’s still here. This isn’t a negotiation and he wouldn’t be invited to it even if it was. How are you, indeed.

Anger rises, and he swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth.

“It’s unfortunate that we can’t make use of a recon unit,” says Godfather at last. The wording is so close to Ray’s that Nate has to stifle a horrifyingly inappropriate snort of laughter. He nods instead.

Godfather doesn’t notice. “The mission is a short one, and we’re already falling behind. I share your frustration, Lieutenant, and be assured that General Mattis has taken the same intelligence concerns into consideration. But I agree with his decision: we don’t have the luxury of time or caution.”

His rasp is especially pronounced today, so much so that Nate is forced to lean closer to hear. He bites back a series of sharp responses regarding Recon’s relative degree of caution or otherwise, settling for, “Understood, sir.”

Upon his dismissal, he makes sure his route back through the camp causes him to walk by all twenty-two Marines in his platoon, silently apologizing to each as he goes.

 

#

 

They drive back south into the evening, an endless figure eight of troops in the sand. Nate counts his kills even though that’s not what he’s here for, but every man that goes down is a gun not trained on his men, and there’s a long way still to go before the rest of the US forces follow up. This time they’re up against men in tanks who know what to do with them.

They make it an embarrassing and inadequate 3k before they’re forced to stop and reassess under the night sky. Nate’s pissed. He’s spent too long doing other people’s jobs for them, watched from a distance when Brad tore strips out of Ray and Hasser for a foolish mistake and ignored the bruise it pressed in his chest, talked war to the reporter so he could _reach out_ to the people of the United States and humanize the First Battalion Recon Marines, and none of those things are the reason Nate’s here.

He heads for Bravo Two and locates the long, thin line of Brad’s body in the dark. That tight anger in his chest loosens as he approaches Brad and Ray from around the side of the vehicle. Brad’s head is bent over a map at which Person is jabbing, Brad listening closely, and it’s only after Ray says, “LT,” that Brad looks up and repeats it. 

“I need a minute with Brad, please, Corporal,” says Nate. 

Ray vanishes after sending a look to Brad that Nate assumes he’s not supposed to see, and Brad glances sideways at Nate. Mortars are exploding close enough to render them both temporarily deaf, over and again, horizon aglow, and they’re forced to step closer to make themselves heard.

“Sir?”

Nate doesn’t know what to say to him. He’s got details to pass on from Godfather, incremental changes to strategies that in this whole invasion have just barely gotten them by, and he doesn’t want to have to apologize or explain.

Nate looks down at the map to give himself time to think, but then frowns and touches the line marked out on the paper. “This isn’t the route we’ve been taking.”

“No, sir,” says Brad. He shifts over, inviting Nate to lean on the front of the vehicle with him. “It’s Corporal Person’s improved edition.”

“Improved by avoiding all the key strategic locations we hit today--” Nate turns the map 90 degrees. “And adding bigger ones?”

Brad traces the amended route with light fingers, tapping at notable moments of divergence. The sun hasn’t dipped below the line of sight yet, just high enough still to read by. “Ray believes that our victory would be better assured if we avoid landmines and instead agree to share the road with rebel forces before we start shooting at each other.”

“Well,” says Nate. “If I find myself running out of my own unwelcome ideas, I’ll be sure to pass Ray’s revisions on to Godfather and General Mattis.”

“Yes, sir. I’d add that it’s only natural that the tactical mind of a whiskey tango hick like Ray Person would expect the enemy to wave us through at stop signs without trying to blow up our Victor on the way. Not too emphatically, though, because--” Brad gestures at the line of bullet holes gracing the paintwork on his vehicle, and the thoroughly blown-up fender. “Maybe he’s onto something.”

“Stranger things, Brad.”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” says Brad, flashing Nate a smile before turning back to the map. 

Nate forces himself to look away. He pushes off the Humvee and says, “Get some sleep tonight.”

“Understood, sir,” says Brad, and then Nate is free to leave, Brad’s expression blank again, giving nothing away, even if Nate could trust himself to read it.

 

#

 

Later, deeper into the night, Nate returns to discuss Godfather’s updates to the next day’s strategic plan with Brad and his team. Brad listens carefully, head turned until Nate is done talking, and nods in all the right places.

He waits for the rest of the men to peel out and away from between the Humvees before opening his mouth to express his frustration with the plan.

Nate holds up a hand to stop him. "Brad. I know."

Brad ignores him. "And during this hostile takeover," he snaps, "where will you be? Directing traffic again?"

"Wherever you need me to be, Sergeant," says Nate, calmly.

There's a long pause, Brad's eyes narrow and disbelieving. Then, suddenly, somehow, they’re kissing, warm and shocking in the darkness. 

Nate isn’t even sure who started it -- his back against Brad’s Humvee, Brad’s arm braced just above his shoulder. He’s the one who stops it though, one hand on Brad’s chest as he pushes him away, saying, “Christ. God, no, not--here.”

“Inside, then,” says Brad, nodding at the vehicle. Nate can see when Brad smiles with all his teeth.

“No,” Nate says to that too, but he pulls Brad closer, and then they’re kissing again. Nate leans into it, feeling Brad close and urgent, lighting his body from the inside.

Three of the men run past the other side of the Humvee, shouting over their shoulders, bringing Nate back to himself with the abruptness of an alarm as Brad steps away, dismay writ across his face, his very red mouth. “Shit.”

Nate can’t think of one damn thing to say. He glances away, but chances a look back, something awful and sad settling inside him at the grim clench of Brad’s jaw.

He tries to duck away but Brad stops him with a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

They listen as Ray and Lilley head back toward them, Trombley trailing after and complaining about Brad’s insistence that he stay the fuck awake on missions. 

“Trombley,” says Ray from ten feet away, patient and unaware in the glow of missiles. “Brad would tell you intimate details of his own sister if he thought it would get you to stop falling asleep.”

Hand touching Nate’s elbow, Brad pulls Nate deeper into the shadow of his vehicle.

Trombley’s voice is an audible whine. “I’m awake when there’s people around to shoot at. And that doesn’t sound like Iceman. What do you mean intimate, like her bra size?”

“No, Trombley, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Like her middle initial or something, Christ.”

Nate almost laughs at the look on Brad’s face, and Brad puts a hand over his mouth, shocking the smile off Nate’s face. Nate takes a long breath through his nose, trying to keep his focus where it should be, desperately not thinking about what sort of risk this is for both of them. 

When his men walk on into the night, neither of them move, bodies close and warm. Just in case.

Brad’s hand leaves his face finally, and before Nate finds the will to pick up where they left off, Brad steps back, back straightening. He shrugs his gun over his arm, shoulders stiff as he walks away.

 

#

 

Next day, after they’re forced to pause their assault on the village, Nate is on his way to talking Doc Bryan down from an apoplectic rage he can hear from a hundred meters away when he’s accosted by Sixta. Nate has spent the last twelve hours burying his guilt in the long blasts of gunfire from all around, unable to stop replaying the night before over and again, feeling sick dread at what nearly happened next. Sergeant Major Sixta is the very last person he wants to see right about now, reading a hastily aborted kiss in the dark on Nate’s face.

“Lieutenant Fick,” says Sixta, unfazed by the doctor shouting abuse at an officer behind them, “I believe you’ll be wanting to go to Godfather’s meeting. He’s not best pleased about this morning’s progress.”

Nate watches from a distance as the doctor stalks from one tent to another, kerchief askew, hands bloody, railing furiously at what must be the youngest Marine in Iraq.

“Quickly, Lieutenant,” says Sixta, mouth sly. “You’ll find him in his tent.”

Not trusting himself to find a response that will let him keep his job while he still wants it, Nate turns, and nearly collides with Brad descending from his vehicle.

Brad puts out a hand to steady him, a quick brush of hand to waist. Nate is torn between flinching and leaning in and ends up swaying in place, complicated want filling his chest. If this is the way it’s going to be now, Nate won’t last the morning.

“Hello, sir,” says Brad quietly.

Nate doesn’t know what look he’s wearing on his own face but if it’s anything like the one on Brad’s then they’re both in trouble; he shifts, letting Brad see Sixta from over his shoulder.

Brad’s expression flickers. “Sir,” he repeats, and stands aside. Strangely relieved, Nate ducks out and away.

 

#

 

They break through the village, rejoin the road, and turn back towards Baghdad before the day is out. Nate doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen when they get back to the city but whatever it is has to be better than the uncertainty of the last four days.

He finds Brad the next day, at the outset of morning, and finds him leaning against a tree stump just beyond the edge of the camp, barely visible in the early dawn. Nate walks closer, silent on the soft earth, but Brad doesn’t seem surprised to see him. Dark-eyed, looking out over the vista ahead and not at Nate, Brad says, “Morning, sir.”

Nate spends a long moment getting over himself. He’s dead on his feet, hasn’t slept yet. He sits down with Brad, and makes himself comfortable against the stump. “Morning.”

Brad gestures expansively before them. “If you look closely enough, you can see the tire tracks from the big circle we just drove in.”

Nate considers.

“If we’d taken Ray’s improved route, we’d have done it in half the time. Going by our illustrious Captain Schwetje’s route, and we’d be just about coming up on Tehran.”

“Probably,” Nate agrees.

Brad gives him a sharp look. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Nate bites back his first response, then the second. “Of course it bothers me. It doesn’t change anything. I could wake Godfather up with a blowjob--”

Brad snorts.

“--and a clearly enumerated list of ways and reasons this invasion has been a mistake and in particular the many failings of Bravo Company’s commander, and all I’d get is a talking to.”

“And a dishonorable discharge,” says Brad after a moment. He bumps a contrite elbow against Nate’s.

Nate nods. “And a dishonorable discharge.”

They watch the sun creep into the sky, the grey-white blur along the horizon resolving into buildings and palm trees and then retreating into shimmering heat.

“If you were the General,” says Brad out of nowhere, “it’d change something.”

Nate laughs. The line of Brad’s body changes in a way that invites Nate to relax.

They stay there together, alone in the dying silence, the distant, hazy city awaiting.


End file.
